Acknowledgements:

This is a non-profit homage based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series Sherlock. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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Note:

This narrative is eleventh in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the sequence in chronological order:

1. The Education of Mycroft Holmes

2. Cate and Mycroft: The Wedding

3. Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

4. Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

5. Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

6. The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes

7. Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets

8. The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes

9. Mycroft Holmes: Tabula Rasa

10. Ne Plus Ultra, Mycroft Holmes

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The Memoirs of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter One

The Letter – Teenagers – Cate – Mycroft's Announcement – A Second Announcement – Secrets – The Substitute.

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Seated at his desk in his private office in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes realised something was seriously wrong within seconds of opening the envelope bearing the portcullis seal of the Cabinet Office. He received many such envelopes each month, often several in a single week, but only three thus far had ever contained anything like the letter he was staring at right now.

He had been nominated – again – for a knighthood.

This was the fourth time in eighteen years he had been the recipient of such a missive, and it troubled him greatly. What made the situation even worse, was that this wasn't even the usual nomination for an Order of the Garter, which would have been bad enough.

No, this was far worse.

Apparently, Her Majesty wished to confer upon him the additional title of Baron of Esgair. Not content with having him knighted, Elizabeth, it seemed, had been convinced to give him an hereditary peerage.

Lord Holmes of Esgair.

He sighed heavily, lifting fingertips to his forehead in vexation. He had made it clear several years ago that he had absolutely no intention of accepting any honours whatsoever while he was operational. The instant heads of quasi-secret government bodies began accepting public honours was the same instant they became less of a professional and more of a public statement and his work could not always be done in the full light of day. Shadows were sometimes the only protection he and his people had and publicity, of any sort, was destructive and counter-productive to the job.

Which made this letter all the more disquieting.

Mycroft knew every single decision-maker involved in the British honours system; this ... his mouth twisted as he looked at the word Baron ... this was not some clerical error or administrative blunder. No, this was very deliberate and had only two possible explanations. Either Her Majesty had lost patience with him and was putting her royal foot down in order to coerce him into accepting an honour, or ... or this was a premeditated and calculated attempt to remove him from his position of authority and control. And since his royal friend of many years would never admit such lèse majesté of losing even a shred of her inestimable patience, then it left only one possible explanation.

Someone was seriously attempting to unseat and most probably eliminate him.

Within six seconds of opening the envelope, he lifted the red phone on his desk and made three brief pre-arranged calls.

###

"No, I still don't see it," Blythe narrowed her eyes as she stared at the magazine photograph of a young and apparently handsome popular musician and singer. "He appears tired, perhaps, but I don't see intoxication," she paused, looking across the room towards her twin. "Of course, it could be the signs of incipient liver disease you're observing."

"What? Where? Show me," Jules caught the magazine as Blythe threw it at his head.

"Look at the colour of the skin just below the eyes," she stretched her head back on her shoulders, yawning. "It might be cosmetics, but few people would consider that colour terribly flattering," she added. "He's not drunk, he's ill."

Holding the photo up to the bright window-light, Jules had to admit that his sister was – once again – correct. He dropped into a chair, thinking.

"Which is why his publicity machine is claiming he's going off to rehab in Medford, just outside of Boston, when in reality, he's going off to the Massachusetts General Hospital Liver Centre for treatment, I'll bet you anything," Jules nodded to himself, pleased with his deduction. "But why not just come out and say he's sick?" he frowned. "It makes no sense to pretend he's drunk, does it?"

"Drunk is sexier in the music world," Blythe linked her fingers together across her chest, the innate wisdom of every one of her fourteen years showing in the cynical cast of her face. "Having a drinking problem is an acceptable celebrity dysfunction; dying of liver failure isn't."

The twins often played this macabre game; out-deducing each other in the lives and times of individuals in the public eye. It was a habit they'd picked up from their uncle, although their mother had trained them to handle the knowledge in ways that were a lot more self-possessed. When they were alone, however, there was no cause for anything but stark honesty. They pretty much knew what the other was thinking, in any case.

And now, both of them sprawling around in the front lounge of the townhouse with the natural ease of any average, non-genius, teenager, they had little to do before dinner. It was too cold to do much outside, in any case, and if they went into the kitchen, their mother would probably leap upon them with small cries of joy and get them to Do Stuff.

"So when are you going to tell Mum and Dad about ... you know ..?"

Blythe knew instantly which particular you know was under discussion. It had been a something of a closed secret between the two of them for several weeks.

"When the moment is right," the fractionally elder of the Holmes twins linked her fingers tighter together. "You know what Dad's going to be like the minute he knows, and then there'll be all sorts of questions and argh ..." she clamped both hands over her face and groaned quietly. "Perhaps I won't bother telling anyone anything until I'm at thirty."

"I think Mum will be okay with it, though Uncle Sherlock ..." Julius was quietly enjoying his sister's minor discomfort; it was rare he got the opportunity.

"Oh, God, don't let him be involved," Blythe cringed inwardly at the idea.

"You know he will be, though," Jules laughed. "And then what will you do?"

She shook her head and grinned horribly. "I will comport myself with grace and moderation, as mother would wish," she quoted one of their mother's favourite catechisms, looking sideways at her brother and making a grotesque face.

"Try it in Latin," he laughed back. "You know old Simonson thinks we've both neglected our Latin; he thinks it's a crime we got away with it for so long as it is."

"Et ipse cum gratia et modeste geret," Blythe sighed, raising both hands in a theatrical flourish, bowing her head a little as she did.

Both of them had pretty near-perfect Latin and they knew it, though their current teacher was being very begrudging about it. It was one of the problems of being self-aware just how clever they actually were.

Having left the Onslow Gardens school shortly after their eleventh birthdays, the twins – there was never any suggestion of splitting them up – attended several London institutions, albeit briefly, until last year when they ended up, more by chance than planning, at Westminster School in the shadow of the great abbey itself. Though Westminster didn't usually take female pupils younger than sixteen, or any students who made it clear, at their interview, that, in their thoroughly informed opinions, God was on par with the Tooth-fairy, the Holmes siblings were not the sort of challenge that came along every day, and, for better or for worse, the old school accepted them both as day pupils.

Nobody, and especially not the twins themselves, had actually expected them to like the place, with its odd routines and Latin religious services and strange old customs. But they did, even though at first it was more about laughing at the school's idiosyncrasies than anything else. But they had both attended for a year now, longer than they had ever managed to stay anywhere else since Onslow. Despite everything, the arrangement seemed to be working, though some of the Westminster teachers regarded the twin-genius-problem as something above and beyond their calling; being a prodigy seemed to cause more difficulties than it solved as the twins discovered.

Oddly enough, whatever they did, or attempted to do in the cause of charming the peasants, as their uncle scathingly described the process, made very little difference. People seemed to either like them or dislike them on sight, simply because they were supposed to be so smart. Some individuals initially viewed them as performing monkeys. Neither perception was true, of course, but the twins had sought each other's company during this testing time. As infants, they had grown used to speaking with the parents of the other children in the crèche at their mother's university and both had learned to converse on an adult level long before they had moved to the Onslow Gardens academy.

Then there was Westminster; a mass of contradictive elements: wild archaisms on the one hand and futuristic technology on the other. But the school itself was so inimitable and idiosyncratic that they found other ill-fitting students who – inexplicably – suddenly started enjoying their company.

Hence Blythe's … problem.

Specifically, a sixteen-year old problem called Landry Banister.

Normally dismissing all members of the male sex – even, occasionally, her immediate family – as deplorable idiots, Blythe had been taken somewhat aback to find that not only was there another male in the school who wasn't an entirely lost cause, but also one who happened to find translating the Dead Sea Scrolls as compelling a hobby as did she.

His ancient Hebrew was as proficient as her Aramaic and after one long afternoon in the Ashburnham House school library, Blythe could not help but find her new friend's intellectual and social skills quite pleasing. Landry was clever and he was not unpleasant. An utter incompetent in many ways of course, but a nice one.

He had dreamy grey eyes and a smile that curved up more on one side of his face than the other. He had eclectic music tastes and loved Rugby but found football dull. He knew how to ride a horse but preferred to walk in the woods near his home. He was good at telling jokes and terrible at playing chess. He wasn't the slightest bit concerned that she was cleverer than he was and Blythe found him quite delightful.

Jules, of course, had been sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of multiple deaths. Blythe knew the second her father discovered she had a … that Landry was her … that she had this particular problem, then it would be all top-secret security checks and weighty discussions, and he'd get all serious and look at her as if she were eight again and still learning how to throw knives like Uncle Sherlock did.

Jules grinned madly as he watched his sister's face mirror her thoughts. Neither of them had had things particularly easy at school, though it wasn't impossible to make friends. On the occasions they met up with these friends, it was usually at their houses rather than bringing them back home in case Dad took too much of an interest. Mum was fine and she usually made sure Dad was out of the way if she knew friends might be coming home with them, but sometimes there was an inevitable meeting in the hallway and the equally inevitable expression of their father's face.

On a philosophical level, Jules also realised that, despite their parents' fairly progressive and liberal attitudes, Blythe would still face a parental inquest about the whole Landry thing, and he thanked the stars the only thing he had to worry about right now was finding shoes that fitted his ever-growing feet.

Laying his head back against the couch cushions, he watched Bly through slitted eyes. Even though she was his sister and therefore a creature often best ignored, he had to admit that she was starting to look quite pretty, as far as he understood the concept of female attraction. Blythe took after their mother on the outside and their father on the inside; all except her eyes. Her eyes were the same dark-blue as Dad's, and she had learned how to use them to the same devastating effect. As her brother, he had been on the receiving end of her glares all his life and, as such, was effectively immune, but he pitied some of their teachers. Jules wondered how Landry Banister had managed to survive this long.

He laughed quietly and she looked across the room, her left eyebrow slightly tweaked.

"Simonson," he grinned, shaking his head. Their Latin teacher really was the biggest pain; his expertise due to thirty years of practice rather than any real feel for the language, which was dead, in any case; probably of mortification because of the way Simonson spoke it. There was definitely something of a hate-hate relationship between he and the twins; irritating the man was almost too easy to be fun.

Jules grinned again. He couldn't wait to see what was going to happen when their father found out Blythe had a boyfriend.

###

Only a few months earlier, Nanny Norah had announced to the family that she was getting too old to keep running up and down the stairs of the townhouse to look after them all and there had been a quiet, though sad acceptance of the inevitable. When Nora finally hung up her pinny and retired to a life by the sea with her sister in Eastbourne, Cate found herself taking on more and more of the domestic tasks. Not that she minded terribly, but time was so precious these days that she begrudged spending it on anything she deemed non-critical. She was still writing, but these days was doing more and more work on the boards of several international charities. It had felt wrong to be so happy in her own life while knowing that there was so much unhappiness in the world beyond her front door. Her inner teacher cringed at the appalling education that far too many children had to endure and her work with Global Educators helped raise significant donations to assist thousands, especially girls, to get an education no matter who they were or what country they were in.

Yet there was so much paperwork to get through; so many committee meetings and public hearings. Then there were the fund-raisers and the political speeches, none of which she imagined she'd be the slightest good at, yet which seemed to welcome her with open arms.

But there just wasn't enough time. She wanted help in the home, someone she could rely on to get the shopping or pick one or other of the twins up from one of their extra-curricular things; the school excursions to the museums and galleries; the visits to the theatre or the scienceworks centre. It was all very well for Mycroft to disappear off into the rarefied haze of his Whitehall offices and leave the household management to her by default, but she had no intention of becoming house-bound.

If nobody else was going to do something about it, then she would.

There was also the matter of the twins' rooms. They had long grown out of their shared nursery, but their current accommodation was not terribly conducive to either comfort or concentration. Presently, they had a small bedroom each and shared the zone in between in what had originally been two guest-rooms knocked together. This space had been gradually shaped into some sort of office-come-study-come-retreat, though they seemed to prefer lolling around in the lounge at the front of the house. Clearly, they both needed a little more privacy and something that was recognisably a place of their own, but also a convenient place to house all their school equipment and the ever-growing library of hard-copy books that both seemed to want despite having access to all manner of eBooks online.

Basting the chicken roasting in the oven besides a huge dish of vegetables and potatoes, Cate resolved to have a family council after dinner where she'd raise these issues and her suggestions for dealing with them. She couldn't imagine anyone would object, although having the rooms redone for both Blythe and Jules would be hellish messy for a few weeks until everything was completed.

Cate sighed. Her calendar was so busy this week, with a book-signing at Foyle's the next day, plus a long committee meeting of Global Educators and a parent-teacher's evening at Winchester before the end of the week. On top of this, there was a pile of dry-cleaning to take out, the dishwasher had suddenly begun to hammer the water pipes when it ran, and she really wanted a little more time to hit the dance studio and maybe, if she could squeeze it in, get a really good massage. Her shoulders had been playing up, recently.

She checked the wall clock; almost six. Mycroft would be home shortly and then she could get the evening discussion started.

"Young Ones," she shouted. "Come set the table, please."

After several minutes of silence, the sound of two pairs of feet announced the arrival of said young ones.

"Mmm ... chicken." Jules sniffed appreciatively. "Good; I'm starving."

"Excellent news," Cate pointed him to a nearby chopping board with a large head of broccoli on it. "Get that in steaming, please," she nodded at the pan of water simmering on the hob. "Your father will be home soon and there's something I want to talk about with everyone as soon as we've had dinner tonight."

Lifting her head up from laying silverware around the dining table in the adjacent room, Blythe looked through the door and met her brother's eyes. Which he rolled.

Family councils usually meant something time-consuming was about to happen.

###

Remembering to collect the rather lavish bouquet of fragrant white flowers he'd ordered earlier, Mycroft checked his Hunter. Almost six. The traffic appeared no worse than usual and he'd be home very shortly, which was good, as there were a number of things he needed to discuss this evening.

Not the least being his plans for the immediate future.

The Jaguar dropped him off as usual and his long legs took the steps two-at-a-time, unlocking the wide front door as he did every night. The aroma of a good dinner greeted him, as did the soft murmur of voices from the rear of the house. Dropping his briefcase in on his office desk, he walked into the kitchen just as Cate uncorked a pinot noir.

"Darling," handing her the flowers, he caught his wife around the waist, waltzed her half across the kitchen and smiled as she squeaked and laughed. Ignoring the jaded sighs of both offspring, he proceeded to kiss her warmly, pleased, as he always was, that everyone inside his world was safe and well. Despite everything that he knew was likely to happen in the oncoming days, Mycroft found himself in a high good humour.

"Chicken?" he sniffed the air. "Perfect. I'm feeling rather peckish."

"You and your son, both," Cate gazed upwards into the insouciantly brilliant face that hadn't changed one jot in all the years she'd known the man, although he wasn't usually this cheerful before dinner. "Do you want to tell me now, or are we going to have the good news later?"

"Hmmm ..." Mycroft pulled her close to his chest, staring down into the utterly unfazed expression of the only woman he would ever love. "There's one or two things I'd like to discuss with everyone after dinner, if that suits," he said, finally looking around and lifting his eyebrows at the twins.

"Mum's already called a family council for tonight, so you'll have to take your turn, Pops," Julius walked over to his parents, handing them both a glass of wine. At a couple of inches under six feet, the boy was already almost as tall as Mycroft and still growing. Lean and lanky as both his father and uncle had been at the same age, Jules' dark curling hair and angular frame marked him as a Holmes man. Hazel eyes and blue ones met calmly and with gentle amusement, as if father and son shared an awareness of what was ahead.

"Dinner in five minutes," Cate turned back to the oven to liberate the chicken. "Help with taking this into the dining room, please."

"I'll carve," Blythe announced, waiting as her mother laid the large bird on a big china platter. "I need to practice my knife-skills," she smiled faintly, carrying the hapless offering to its ultimate doom as Jules hefted a large bowl of roast vegetables and another of roast potatoes. Mycroft stood open-handed, waiting for the steamed greens and the steaming gravy.

"You shouldn't be doing all this as well as the rest of your work," he noted, frowning slightly. "You'll exhaust yourself."

"Hold that thought, my love," Cate followed behind with the wine and their glasses as the family assembled around the table.

"A toast," Mycroft lifted his glass once dinner had been served. "To the unknown," his eyes gleamed as he tasted the crisp wine, his good mood in full swing.

It was a matter of, at most, three seconds, before both twins laid down their silverware in unison and, sitting back in their seats, looked at each other before turning to their father, arms crossed and identical expressions that said they were waiting for the boot to fall.

"I like cold chicken," Blythe was the first to begin as she eyed Mycroft with an intrigued curl of her mouth.

"And I've been a lot hungrier than I am right now," Jules ignored the food on his plate in favour of staring unremittingly at his father.

Replacing his glass, Mycroft's own expression became bland and entirely unrevealing as he looked from one twin to the other. He lifted an eyebrow but remained silent.

"And I didn't just cook a full roast for it to get cold while the three of you play staring games for the next half-hour," Cate gave each member of her family one of her own looks that recommended they all start eating before she gave their dinners to the first homeless people she could find.

A slow smile curving his own mouth, Mycroft blinked and was the first to submit and start eating; savouring each bite of food, pausing with an uplifted angle of gaze that suggested his contemplation was of things far loftier than steamed broccoli.

"And you should stop tantalising your children," Cate smiled as she prodded her husband gently in the ribs where she knew he was occasionally ticklish. "Come on then," she added, sipping her own wine. "Out with it."

"I am permitted no fun," Mycroft sighed heavily, contemplating a piece of carrot with great sadness.

"It's not that you've just solved a particularly difficult problem," Blythe commented, picking up her own knife and fork, "because you do that all the time without half as much smiling involved," she said, attacking a potato.

"Nor has there been anything specifically spectacular on the news, either domestic or foreign," Jules narrowed his eyes as he took a sip of water. "Nor anything to do with either of the Koreas," he said, examining his plate for the most attractive thing to begin eating. "Thus it's unlikely that your news has anything to do with world peace," he leaned forward, challenging. "Or has some small nation just voted you king?"

"I really think we should finish dinner before I open this particular can of worms," Mycroft's nonchalance as he continued eating was a masterly performance in its own right.

"It this something I need be concerned about, darling?" Cate's tone was equally unworried, but there was a faint edge to her question.

Laying down his cutlery with a sharp exhale, the elder Holmes handed them all an exasperated glare. "Can a man have no peace to enjoy his dinner?" he demanded, grumpily.

"You started it," Cate was not fooled for one moment by his practiced huff.

Neither were the twins. This was standard prevarication methodology for any Holmes and they wasted no sympathy.

"Oh, very well," Mycroft lifted his wineglass again and looked into its pale contents with some concentration for a few seconds before he met the combined gaze of his family.

"I am thinking about retiring."

###

"Are you unhappy with me?" Mycroft poured the last of the wine into Cate's glass as she made coffee while the twins cleared up the detritus of dinner.

"Unhappy?" her smile was serene and genuine. "Not in the least, darling," she reached for his hand, his long fingers cool and reassuring in hers. "I'm just finding it hard to believe that you'd be able to give everything up so easily and so ... so simply, as if it were nothing more than switching off a light and closing a door behind you," she paused, resting a palm on his chest. "There's no trouble, is there?" she asked, looking at him thoughtfully. "We've been down this road before, the two of us," she added. "So if there was a problem, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"There's no problem, my love," he slid long arms around her shoulders, bringing her close so he could rest his chin on her head. He sighed; a small frown creased between his eyes for a moment then vanished. "Now what did you want a family council for? Do you have an announcement of some sort?"

Handing him a cup of coffee, Cate took her own and sat in one of the kitchen chairs. "Twins," she called, waiting until both offspring trooped in and sprawled ungainly half in a chair and half across the table top.

"I had no idea your father was going to have that kind of news tonight," she began, looking first at daughter, then son. "But it's actually a perfect time for me to tell you what I think we need to have happening around her in the near future," she said, a pleased smile on her lips.

"Which is?" Mycroft looked at her slightly sideways, evaluating what his wife's next statement was likely to contain.

"I want to renovate the house," she said, sipping her coffee. "I want to return the guest rooms to their original purpose and redecorate the Master bedroom and bathroom. I think we need new carpeting on the upper floors and I want to do something fairly spectacular with the flooring on the ground level too," she added, a little smile arriving on her face.

"Then where are Jules and I to sleep?" Blythe wasn't overly anxious; she knew her mother wasn't finished.

"I've had several ideas in this area," Cate nodded, mostly to herself. "We can either gut the attics and make a large single suite up there for you both to share, or …"

"Or?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows wondering if she were going to suggest building an additional floor on the roof. Others were doing it, as London house-prices soared. It wouldn't be cheap, but then this was also an investment for the future. He was inwardly delighted that Cate's creative instinct seemed as active now as it had been when they had first met.

"Or we gut both the attic and the cellar; make two independent suites, and you two can fight over which you want, or alternate, if you prefer," Cate sat back and looked at the contemplative faces around her. "I am working on the premise that you'll both be living here with your father and I for at least another five or six years, so it makes sense to have this upheaval now, before your lives become overly complicated," she paused, about to say more but thinking better of it.

"Cellar!"

"Attic!"

The statements were loud and simultaneous, with Jules pointing up high in the exact moment that Blythe pointed down.

"I shall take that as a vote for separate accommodations, shall I?" Cate laughed as Mycroft's hand found hers and squeezed, lifting it to his lips.

"An excellent idea, my love," he smiled. It would keep Cate enthused and occupied; hopefully too occupied to worry too much about his situation. The same went for his children who were displaying an inconvenient level of perception these days. "Have you drawn up any suggestions as to layout and plan?" he asked, knowing it was probably one of the first things she had done.

"Only as far as the size and approximate shape of the available spaces," she admitted, nodding again. "I'd want to bring in an architect and make this a full family decision," she added.

"Do I get space for a laboratory?" Blythe asked, breathless with anticipation.

"And can I have big windows for painting?" Julius looked from one parent to the other and back. "Please?"

"Perhaps," Cate grinned. "Especially now that I've finally chosen the project manager for the new building works," she said.

"And which firm of architects have you chosen, my dear?" Mycroft was quite content for her to choose whatever she wanted if it made her happy.

"Why darling," Cate turned to him and smiled hugely. "The venerable firm of Holmes and Holmes, of course," she said. "If you're going to retire, what better thing than to give you a nice big project to handle so you won't become bored?"

Mycroft sensed a great pit yawning wide at his feet.

"I may be too busy to tackle something of that magnitude," he backpedalled rapidly, assuming a significance of expression to waylay any potential commitment. "I expect to have my hands full with a creative endeavour of my own, in fact."

"Such as?" Blythe felt her skin prickle with anticipation. Tonight was turning out to be full of the unexpected.

Hesitating, Mycroft adopted a faintly self-deprecating little smile. "I'm going to write my memoirs," he said, looking from one face to the next.

There was something of a concentrated hush as the notion sank in.

"The scandals?" Cate frowned, remembering several of them.

"Where the bodies are buried?" Blythe's eyes were wide at the thought of it.

"The cock-ups … the miscalculations?" Julius sounded dubious.

Mycroft finished his coffee and leaned back in his chair, a dark smile lending a villainous cast to his face. "Everything," he said. "All of it."

###

It was while their mother was taking a shower that evening, that the twins managed to corner Mycroft in his office as he was seated at his desk.

"We know you're not going to tell Mummy all the details," Blythe's expression made it perfectly clear that while he might be able to fool his wife, he wasn't about to put one over on his children. "And we don't expect you to tell us everything either," she added, though her tone was wistful.

"But we wanted you to know that if you're in trouble and you need our help with anything, then we understand that you mightn't want to involve Mum," Jules felt a little awkward excluding his mother like this, but it was clearly for her own safety and protection. Even at fourteen, he knew it was his job to look after her. Blythe was fully capable of looking after herself, but their mother was a gentle soul who quite definitely merited the care of husband and son.

Partly touched by their obviously genuine concern for him and Cate, and simultaneously amused by the equally genuine ambition to find out everything they possibly could, Mycroft smiled to the precisely correct degree to avoid offending young feelings.

"I assure you that, should the situation require your assistance, I will not hesitate to call upon either or both of you," he replied. "We shall keep this discussion between ourselves, however," he added seriously. "This must be a private matter."

"Agreed," both twins looked solemn.

Blythe leaned forward and put her arms around his neck. "Do be careful, Daddy," she murmured, kissing his cheek. "You know how Mummy worries about you." Mycroft noted his daughter did not say that she worried about him.

A true Holmes.

It was later that night, after the twins had gone to their respective rooms, that Cate turned to him in bed.

"I know you've not told us everything," she said, quietly. "Though I hope you don't expect me to remain on the side-lines as you suffer in silence," she said, leaning over and stroked a rebellious lock of hair back from his face. "Nor do I expect you to tell me every little detail," she added, "but I will not have you going off on one of your mysterious operations without some knowledge of the general ramifications, do you understand?" she added, sliding down beside the warmth of his body.

In the dark of the bedroom, Mycroft smiled, knowing Cate would know he smiled.

"I promise you, my love, I will keep you apprised of everything you need to know throughout the entire affair," he said, rolling onto his side and laying a hand across her waist, pulling her closer. "Your support is too valuable to disregard, though it's going to be hard to keep the twins at bay; they're increasingly insightful, these days."

"You leave them to me," Cate pressed her lips to the skin of his throat. "I've had plenty of Holmes-wrangling practice to know how to deal with the children." Cate knew she was fully capable of looking after herself, but the twins were still young and inexperienced, no matter how perceptive they were becoming. Both Blythe and Jules might consider themselves ready to join the family franchise of conspiracy and mayhem, but they were still essentially innocent adolescents and she had no plans at all for them to lose that innocence to fallout from their father's work-related machinations. "Though if you need my help in anything, you have but to say," she added, sliding her fingers up through his hair as his arm tightened around her.

"Your help has always been important to me," his voice dropped half-an-octave as he brushed the side of her neck with his mouth, caressing the delicate angle of her jaw. "You have no idea how much I would value your co-operation right now."

Cate laughed against the heat of his skin. She could already feel how much he wanted her co-operation.

"You are a very bad man," she whispered, lifting her mouth up to his, welcoming his desire and obvious eagerness.

"I do my best," Mycroft murmured as he wrapped her in a tight embrace, finding her lips and letting the hunger rise between them.

###

The very next evening on the way home from Foyle's as she wriggled the cramp out of her aching hand, Cate was surprised to see the Jaguar parked outside the townhouse. It was unusual for Mycroft to make it home before her and she wondered if it had anything to do with the discussion of the previous evening.

Unlocking the front door, she wandered along the central passage. Mycroft wasn't in his office, nor in either of the lounges. Perhaps he was upstairs.

A small grin curved her mouth at the thought of getting him alone upstairs before the children arrived. It would be just like old times.

There was the noise of clattering pans from the kitchen, and she shrugged. Mycroft must have felt a wave of domesticity and come home early to cook dinner. Cate smiled again. If this was a sign of things to come, she'd remember to make his evenings as pleasant as possible.

"Why darling, how lovely to have you all to myself and alone …" Cate stopped abruptly and her grin vanished.

The man sorting out the cooking utensils in her cupboards was not her husband.

Late-twenties, tallish, mousey-blond hair and, when he looked up at her startled exclamation, Cate saw a diamond nose-stud and a cheeky grin.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen?" she demanded, dropping her bags and rising onto her toes, ready for whatever happened next.

"Ah, my love," Mycroft walked into the room behind her, dropping a light kiss on the side of her head. "Meet our new Nora."